Hard life in the low rises. Of Hassocks.
Coming home from London to Brighton after the late shift, the train rumbles through a string of endless brick. It deposits weary city workers into safe little suburban towns and scoops up excitable gangs with bags of cans, drinking their way into Brighton, where they’ll drink some more, shout some more, and kiss, piss and back-street bang their way through to dawn. Ish.
The towns we pass through all have safe, comfortable names. Names that ring earbells of cups of hot, sweet tea in china mugs with flowers on the side; warm sitcom memories of ruched roman blinds in the bathroom and a sit-down mower in the garden:
Burgess Hill.
Three Bridges.
Balcombe.
Haywards Heath.
Wivelsfield.
Hassocks.
Their names sing songs of monosyllabic family meals around the oval table, while the television chunters away to itself in the adjoining sitting room. Then Katy’s off to ballet while Tommy plugs away at his Kung Fu classes. Prawn cocktail flavoured crisps stack up in the garage.
These are nice places with nice names, surely containing nice families who bring their nice children up in nice homes to be nice …
… Which is why I’m always surprised when West Sussex’s answer to some kind of Inner City LA street gang pile on to the train.
Last night was a beautiful example of this.
The train was quiet, full of returning London idiot-commuters chugging back to their lovely homes too far away. Hassocks (a dream of a village name!) was the last stop before Brighton, and at that stop, no one got on the first carriage, where my beloved and I sat, separately absorbed in laptop and crossword.
Two minutes later, the carriage door at the end of the carriage banged open, and through it tumbled a jumble of tracksuits and swearwords.
[Please note: on behalf of the beautifully delicate Soft Ears of some of my readers, I will be censoring the swearwords in the dialogue of the youths below.
I will be replacing the swearwords with items and activities that represent the suburban life they are so obviously trying to reject, just to rub in my point a little bit more, because subtlety is terribly nineties. And never terribly me.
If I told you that most of the last two sentences were originally typed on caps lock by mistake and that has made me laugh for about twelve minutes you probably wouldn't believe me, but it's true. Anyway.]
“Is this the last gardening carriage? I fishing thought there were more mothergolfing carriages than this.”
“Nah, this is it.”
Michael Parkinson HELL.”
“There are no Crazy paving seats, for sunbed‘s sake. There’s only a John Lewis Wedding Listing First Class section, and we can’t sit in there, because apparently, we’re not first class net curtaining citizens. Pass me another can of troweling Stella, will you?”
They stood in the doorwell, quietly grumbling, mumbling, and swearing at slightly over-pronounced volume about not having anywhere to sit. There were plenty of places to sit. You just had to compromise, sit near other people and maybe not sit with your knees four feet apart to do it.
Their baseball caps were pulled hard down over their eyes, their tracksuit bottoms pulled hard down somewhere around their knees. I could see their pants. I was as unsure as ever why I was supposed to be intimidated by someone’s clean grundies.
“It must be hard” whispered my beloved, leaning forward.
“What?”
“You know. Growing up on the streets. Of Hassocks.”
I tried to giggle without anyone seeing.
“Yes, it is a struggle” I replied, “livin’ on the West Side. Of Hassocks”
“Indeed. Though it’s good to know you have the support of your homies, because you need your bruthas in arms when you’re popping a cap in someone’s ass during the terrible gang wars” He whispered, head cocked, streetly “Of Hassocks.”
“Yes, that is true. But I can’t help but worry when I think of them standing around, trying to scratch a living selling god-knows-what at the towers and the low rise estates…”
(I’ve watched to many episodes of The Wire, yes…)
“Yes?” he said.
“… Of Hassocks”
Our shoulders quietly shook as anything referring to the tough streets ‘Of Hassocks’ became the newest punchlline to enter our common language.
We discussed the wider social ramifications of the ‘Hassocks Problem’, and whether the malaise of the Hassocksian Youths were things that were affecting society/politics/class-divide as a whole in a whisper in our seats, before realising that they’d taken the plunge, and entered the first class carriage.
Because they’d weighed up the pros and cons, and landed softly on the side of rebel: Revenue Protectors (previously known as Ticket Inspectors) rarely come through that time of night.
And a couple of minutes later, twitchy, they came out again.
“Thing is, like, we’re getting off in a Church of England minute anyway, innit? “
“Hang on! Haven’t we just gone past our badminton clubbing stop? We wanted to get off at Souffleing Preston antimacastering Park, didn’t we?
“Oh Radio 5 Live!”
“Any-King Charles Spanieling-way, We’re nearly there. What shall we do? You wanna go and see my sister’s boyfriend’s mate’s band in that BAR, yeah? They’re well two car garaging good.”
“Yeah, we could. Hang on, no, yeah? Let’s go and sit in strimmering Churchill Square and check out da honeyz!”
“All right.”
“I’m Radio Times dying for a DIYing fag. I really Career in Admin am.”
“Me too.”
“Vauxhall Yeah”
“Yeah, but we can’t have one in the station, like, because of the ban.”
“Oh yeah, you’re right.”
“Yeah. Stupid Daily Mailing ban.”
“Soon as the doors go, we should get out of the station and off its grounds to have one.”
“Yeah!!!”
We looked at each other, safe on our seats. These sweary sweary people were menacing in their own little way, and sweary as all Apple Crumble, but, it seemed, when it came to crunches, they were very bad at actually disobeying any rules.
They tried, but they couldn’t make themselves go in the first class carriage when they didn’t have a ticket.
They thought about going to a bar when they got there, but some of them not being of drinking age, they suddenly seemed to decide it wasn’t a good idea.
They were desperate for a cigarette – clearly desperate – but nothing was going to persuade them to break the three day old ban.
We sat quietly discussing their beautifully sweary youthful incongruities, the fact that they were clearly good boys playing at being bad boys secretly dying to be good boys, while the train pulled into the station.
“Wicked, we’re here.”
“Let’s Rip it OUP man, Yeah?”
“Yeeeeaaaaaah!…
[pause]
… I have to be on the last train home though, yeah?”
“Oh Radio Five Live”
Classic – I am definately going to use that one!
Comment by Amazed — 6 July, 2007 12:28 am
“The hard streets of Hassocks”
That’s totally fertilizing the roses brilliant.
Comment by jimD — 6 July, 2007 1:33 am
ahh, “Souffleing Preston Couching Park”
i miss living there from my student days.. not so much the train occupants on my way there mind. topiarying twits the lot of them. bless.
Comment by Simon — 6 July, 2007 1:47 am
it took me an embarrassingly long time to figure out what “souffleing” could possibly be.
I was stuck pronouncing it something like “sooffle.” Like “waffle” only with “soo-” instead of “wa-”.
Comment by anna* *the american one — 6 July, 2007 3:50 am
That was patio heating funny.
Comment by Lisa — 6 July, 2007 7:31 am
Hassocks is the one station I’ve never stopped at on that train line, living at one end and with my parents (near) the other. Three Bridges ain’t that nice either – sprawling concrete surrounds it in the form of Creepy Crawley. But hey, at least there *was* a train – that’s something!
Comment by Richard Gillin — 6 July, 2007 8:34 am
Oh lovely Anna! That made me smile. :-)
Comment by Pigwotflies — 6 July, 2007 10:03 am
Yes. Love it. To bits.
(not a very witty comment I’m afraid)
Comment by JonnyB — 6 July, 2007 11:02 am
That was Nicky Campbellingly well written. I laughed my doily off.
Comment by Cliff — 6 July, 2007 11:49 am
Far kennel! You’ve put the socks back into Hassocks.
Comment by Murph — 6 July, 2007 12:43 pm
How exactly is Hassocksian pronounced? I wish to use it in intellectual conversation about the alienation of yoof.
Ace. x
Comment by Miss T — 6 July, 2007 12:56 pm
You’re the best. :)
Comment by Kathryn — 6 July, 2007 1:39 pm
Little darlings. Ours are ackshual real gang-bangers so they just murmur choice bits of Pindar as they slit one another’s nostrils. Sweary swearing is so wannabe.
Comment by Megan — 6 July, 2007 2:39 pm
Ha, brilliant, reading that has made me all smiley. Thank you, Anna.
Comment by Tasha — 6 July, 2007 2:55 pm
Ah, bless their little cotton (Has)socks. Do you think they’ll go up to “da earl grey tea hot honeyz” and offer to carry their library books?
Comment by KT — 6 July, 2007 3:27 pm
yeah
Comment by joeinvegas — 6 July, 2007 3:54 pm
That was Home and Gardenly funny, made my Pilates classingly day.
Comment by Liam — 6 July, 2007 5:21 pm
Sounds very much like you have accepted being 30.
Fight Fight Fight against the dying of the light
Comment by RMH — 6 July, 2007 7:50 pm
Meant to say have you ever been to Hersham?
Wierd Council/buyback/innercity clearance area next to ultimate commuter Surrey.
“Hersham Boys Hersham Boys
Concrete Roads and faux cladding ”
Was the song
Comment by RMH — 6 July, 2007 7:54 pm
LOL.
I am from around there. You bring back such memories.
These kids are just wannabes really…they think they is well ghetto n street (or something…) but they go home to their nice middle-class mums in reality.
The kids where I now live (in London) ARE hard and would kick their arses any day.
Comment by Cara — 6 July, 2007 9:17 pm
Are they Chavs? I’ve seen this word before, and someone recently explained it to me. Or are they wannabe Chavs? Or are they wannabe gangstas? I’m confused. Do they fake Jamacan accents and pretend they’re black? (Tom Reynolds calls that “JaFAKEan.”)In Medford, Oregon, the closest thing we have are redneck kids who drive around with the gun rack in the back of their truck, yelling at hotties. Or white kids who talk like Eminem and wear really really huge jeans halfway down their asses.
Comment by Maria — 6 July, 2007 11:47 pm
They’re the very last of those options that you mentioned, Maria. They are *exactly* the same people. But somehow cuter.
I even said ‘Aw!’ as I heard that ‘last train’ comment, as they got off the train. They had been loud and sweary and menacing, but they just so clearly *weren’t*.
Chav. Hm. I don’t like the word ‘chav’. it’s been too widely used in this country now, meaning wildly different things. It seemed to move quite quickly from meaning a specific social phenomenon and a specific groups of people to being an ok term for snobs to chastise anyone they felt were lesser than themselves.
And yes, I know I’m a snob, but I don’t like it. Because I may hate poor people, but I hate rich people even more.
I’m so totally going to delete that last sentence as soon as I sober up a bit, I just know it.
Comment by anna — 7 July, 2007 12:01 am
[...] 3. Little Red Boat – Hard life in the low rises. Of Hassocks. [...]
Pingback by Post of the Week » Blog Archive » Shortlist for week ending 6th July 2007. — 7 July, 2007 12:15 am
Now we know what happens in Hassocks, would you be so kind as to explain Tarring Neville, Ripe, Filching, and Lower Dicker?
Are these the activities of those poor deprived children’s parents? Could they explain the corruption of such innocent minds, or are they just a drunken cartographer’s joke?
Having driven past Tarring Neville on my way out of Brighton a few years ago, I decided it has to be the title of a low budget thriller, but I’ve never had time to sit down and write it. Would you or one of your readers do the honours?
Comment by JJ — 7 July, 2007 12:25 am
That was brilliant, Anna. Thanks for the laugh. Wannabe gangstas seem to be a worldwide affliction. :)
Comment by Angie — 7 July, 2007 3:06 am
Masterchief me!
BTW- This is really lovely:
“We sat quietly discussing their beautifully sweary youthful incongruities, the fact that they were clearly good boys playing at being bad boys secretly dying to be good boys, while the train pulled into the station.”
Comment by Nicole — 7 July, 2007 10:50 am
“Oh Radio 5 Live!”
The best expletive I’ve heard in a long time.
I enjoyed that post :)
Comment by anxious — 7 July, 2007 11:05 am
Ha ha, very good. Of Hassocks.
Comment by Will — 7 July, 2007 12:24 pm
Love it.
Comment by Pip — 7 July, 2007 3:51 pm
I’m completely on the side of the youth here…
I grew up in the rough bit of Eastbourne and no one gives me the got the children into a nice Church of England schooling street cred I deserve!
Comment by Yellow — 7 July, 2007 10:38 pm
“… I have to be on the last train home though, yeah?— this made me snigger for a good five minutes, which is a shame, as I had already fairly effectively disguised my mirth at the rest of the post with an impromptu coughing fit. It’s a bit of a giveaway that you probably aren’t doing very advanced yoga class urgent work when you are caught giggling at your laptop.
Comment by Melograna — 8 July, 2007 12:23 pm
Thanks all, you are very lovely.
Sorry am being quiet – lots and lots of work and things. Yay, but also boooooo.
Will up date very soon, honest.
Comment by anna — 8 July, 2007 4:12 pm
[...] Little Red Boat: Hard life in the low rises. Of Hassocks. [...]
Pingback by Post of the Week » Blog Archive » Post of the Week #25 — 9 July, 2007 4:54 am
Aha! Oho! Knock-through archway to the dining area-ing Hell! POTW, tis thine! Congratulations!
Comment by mike — 9 July, 2007 9:14 am
Anna
I sniggered semi-detachedly. Then got biskit and remembered the noisy (maybe) Czech students, while arranging books in colour order.
I love Little Red Boat.
Comment by H — 9 July, 2007 11:08 pm
That was dustbustering funny!
Comment by Mr Farty — 9 July, 2007 11:25 pm
It can’t have been easy growing up on the mean streets of a place named after the kneelers you find in church.
Comment by Richard — 10 July, 2007 12:05 pm
Hilarious! I just don’t get why they want to be like that, there are tons around here, but no one has written about them as you have :D
Comment by Kat — 10 July, 2007 4:20 pm
Wonderful.
Those poor kids, though, growing up in the mean crescents of Hasnotsocks (the underprivileged end). I feel their poodle shampooing pain.
Comment by Rob — 10 July, 2007 9:16 pm
[...] 5. Little Red Boat: Hard life in the low rises. Of Hassocks. (Week 25) [...]
Pingback by Post of the Week » Blog Archive » Post of the Year: the shortlist. — 28 December, 2007 10:39 pm
This post has been shortlisted for Post of the Year. Best of luck…
Comment by mike — 28 December, 2007 10:51 pm
[...] Little Red Boat: Hard life in the low rises. Of Hassocks. [...]
Pingback by Post of the Week » Blog Archive » Post of the Year. — 31 December, 2007 6:31 pm
…and congratulations for winning the damn thing!
Wishing you a Happy New Year, from all at Post of the Week.
Comment by mike — 31 December, 2007 6:41 pm
And what a well-deserved win! Lyrical, political, thoughtful and witty. No, hilarious. Wonderful stuff. My New Year’s resolution: not to miss any more of your posts.
Comment by Victoria — 2 January, 2008 11:02 am
Damn, missed that gem and didn’t vote. I would have though. Well done and that’s why you should keep blogging. even when you’re dead tired or ill and you’re wondering why you keep on doing this. I’ve got to say that babies follow kittings, it’s a fact. 3/1 for announcement in 18 months, no pressure.
Comment by Anna from the Styx — 2 January, 2008 9:52 pm
I’s from Hassocks, innit.
Well, Wivelsfield Green.
Comment by Robyn — 24 October, 2008 1:52 am
There I was innocently trawling the website for some more information on Hassocks as we’re considering moving there very shortly. Just looking for information on clubs,nice pubs, train connections that kind of thing..
Anyone got any idea where else we could live??
Comment by Sam — 23 November, 2008 11:25 am
I was brought up in Hassocks too and loved it!!!! Innit
Comment by Rosanne — 9 December, 2008 12:55 pm
Oh no we’re about to complete on a house in Hassocks tomorrow…fiddling flower petals!
Maybe I should keep it real and go back to Whitehawk…cripes!
Seriously though have we made a mistake? It’s more like Hurstpierpoint really…haha
Comment by Tammy Murphy — 6 July, 2010 11:38 pm
I’d forever want to be update on new blog posts on this site, saved to my bookmarks!
Comment by good registry cleaner — 6 September, 2011 6:22 pm